


If Only in My Dreams

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2014: Brothers, Soulmates, and Other Such Sexiness [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas Eve, Churches & Cathedrals, Depression, Drunk Dean, Drunkenness, M/M, Stanford Era, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's unraveling on his first Christmas spent apart from Sam. (Stanford era)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Day thirteen of my fic advent calendar. Prompt: drunks.
> 
> I've had the candle-lighting part of this story written for almost three years now, and it just fit kind of perfectly and absolutely breaks my heart. (Just in case y'all didn't know, I love Dean Winchester so, so, so, sososo much.)

Dean never told anybody, but he used to pray to his mom’s angels. 

He remembers vividly the way she would pray with him properly: both of them kneeling beside Dean’s small bed, their elbows against the soft mattress, hands clasped, heads bowed, his mom’s voice solemn and quiet. Dean would squeeze his eyes shut tight like peeking was forbidden and nod along as Mary spoke, agreeing with her about blessing all the animals in the world and keeping Daddy safe and baby Sammy. And he would always get so excited when they got to the end of the prayer, when he got to talk to the angels, too, just long enough to whisper an “amen.”

After she died, he kept up the praying for awhile, used to wrap around Sam in his crib and close his eyes and pray hard for him to stay warm, to please stop crying, to sleep so Dean could sleep. He used to pray in the passenger’s seat of the Impala when they flew down dark roads in the middle of the night, his dad shaken and haunted beside him.

He doesn’t know when he stopped, doesn’t remember anymore if it was something specific that made him realize that no one was there, no one was listening, and no one gave a shit what happened to him or the people he loves. He just knows the truth now, that he’s got no one to depend on but himself, that no one is there to help no matter how tightly he closes his eyes or how many tears slip down his cheeks when he whispers his prayers into the quiet.

Doesn’t matter.

He moved from the bar hours ago, kicked out because they were closing up early. Like drunks care when it’s Christmas Eve. Like they need to drink less tonight or something. It’s even worse tonight, the empty feeling Dean usually has in the center of his chest where Sam’s absence lives is swallowing him whole, devouring him from the inside. 

And if he’s being honest, he got himself nice and drunk really early just so he couldn’t possibly give into the temptation to get in the car and drive to Palo Alto.

He’d left the car at the bar and set off on foot, walking through the slushy, empty streets of downtown Monticello, Utah, not a single other soul out here, no one else braving the bitter wind and the ever-present snow in this part of the state this time of year. He doesn’t even remember why he’s here exactly. He left Bobby’s after an argument with the man over his brother, had told Bobby to mind his own fucking business before leaving with a slam of the door and an angry spray of gravel under his tires.

Nobody tells him how to deal with this shit. Nobody tells him how to feel about his brother and the fact that he’s fucking gone, that Dean hasn’t talked to him in months and he feels like it’s all his own fucking fault. Nobody is gonna tell him that he should be happy for Sam, that he needs to let him go and let him grow up. _Nobody._

He reaches for the handle of the liquor store that he finally, _finally_ finds only to find it locked. He takes a step back and stares up at the building, at the dim light that’s on inside and the neon open sign that is indeed turned off.

“Come on,” he gruffs, head swimming almost pleasantly, and he gives the handle a rough jerk, feeling immediately like a teenager again who used to hang out with older guys who didn’t think twice about a little casual vandalism when the mood struck them (it had been a brief period of Dean’s life that John Winchester nipped in the bud pretty fucking quickly when he’d caught on). The liquor already in him makes him want to break a window or jimmy the lock and steal the most expensive whiskey on the shelf, but the big brother in him, the annoying Winchester guilt gene he was born with, makes him let go of the door, sigh, and keep walking.

He keeps his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, wishing he was sensible enough to own a pair of gloves or a hat or just not fucking stop in such a horrible part of the country in the damn winter. He could be in Miami or New Orleans right now, and where is he?

In a tiny town covered in three feet of snow that promises to be four by morning.

He sees lights in windows up ahead in the muted dark, and he heads toward them simply because they look warm. He lets out a bitter scoff that leaves his mouth in a puff of condensation, about to just keep walking, to see how far he can get before he gets frostbite, or if he’ll get picked up for vagrancy, or he’ll fall asleep on a rickety park bench and never wake up again.

He glances around, not a single other soul anywhere around him, and loneliness swoops in so suddenly, so acutely, that he feels it like a physical punch. The old brass handle on the church door is freezing when he wraps his hand around it and pulls.

Warmth floods him the second he steps inside, the door echoing loudly as it closes behind him. The church is quiet and practically empty, the air warmed but it’s a drafty building, the smell of dust and incense permeating absolutely everything, seeping right into the walls and the sagging wood floor and the worship-worn pews. He pushes his hands back into his pockets and steps into the sanctuary, head ducked in inherent inferiority, in the unflinching knowledge of _I do not belong here._

His attention turns to the rows and rows and rows of flickering candles along the wall to his left, the one source of warmth and light in the entire church. He finds himself walking toward it, drawn there like a child, his eyes unblinking with wonder. He stops there in front of the crowd of candles, his throat tight as he looks them over. It all feels so important, so sacred and meaningful, each of the honey-colored, flickering flames. He notices some among them that are unlit, their wicks black from previous use.

There’s a quiet movement behind him and then a woman appears to his right, stepping right up to the candles with her head bowed. She crosses herself and picks one of the little wooden sticks stacked at the bottom of the whole set-up, touching the tip of it to a tiny flame and pressing it to an unlit one, a bright, cheerful flame sparking up to dance in the drafty air.

Dean looks away with a start when she glances over at him, his jaw tight, eyes down, his heart beating stupidly fast for absolutely no reason, and he tenses when she moves closer to him, her smile warm out of the corner of his eyes.

She picks up another wooden stick and holding it over another candle for the fire to catch. She holds it out for Dean, waiting patiently for him to take it. He glances over at the offered flame and then very briefly up into her eyes before he reaches out to take it, giving her a small, nervous smile.

Her small hand lights on his arm, on his cold jacket, and he looks back down again, his other hand trembling in his pocket.

“You light them for the ones you love,” she explains softly, like he’s a child, like maybe he’s fragile. And he hates how much he appreciates it, that she can tell that he’s about to break apart tonight. “It’s like sending up love and good thoughts and happiness for them.”

She gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he nods just once, not really knowing what to say back, what kindness to offer her when all he feels is scared and unbearably alone. He looks back at the flame traveling up the length of the stick, burning slowly. Her hand slips off of his arm as she walks away, leaving him alone once again.

He looks over the lines of little candles, spying two beside each other, waiting for fire. He touches the flame to the unlit wick of one of them, conjuring his mom’s face as he does, her blonde hair and her smile that is the same color as the warmth in this church and her bright eyes that he’d inherited from her and her laugh. He can still hear her laughter, even up to this very second. She’d always laugh when Dean did, just like the sound was enough to make her near to bursting with joy. _For you, Mom_ , he said silently. _For the Christmas you can’t have with us._

He moves on to the candle next to Mom's, touching the fire to it, his eyes brightening in the extra light. He can picture his dad so clearly and he feels heavy with it, his eyes dulling. He knows his dad is somewhere dark, somewhere alone on Christmas Eve, fighting for someone else's life, trying to make sure they live to see another Christmas. He understands his dad, always has, as best as he can. He understands why he fights, why he feels so lost. No matter what happens, no matter how strained it gets between them, he knows he’ll always feel this tug in his heart for his dad. This love and profound respect. _For you, Dad._ The candle dances almost merrily as his eyes blur with tears, the flame brightening and widening with them. _I hope you're thinking of back when you were happy, when you had Mom. When Christmas was good._

He glances behind him self-consciously, making sure no one is watching him or waiting for him to get the hell out of the way or laughing at his tiny show of faith. He drops the nearly spent little piece of wood and picks up a new one, taking fire from Mom's candle and he focuses fully as he lights a new candle, making sure he does it with purpose, with intent and his heart feels lighter almost immediately. He just has to picture his smile, just has to say his name once in his head and everything floods him. Everything. Sammy.

There it is: Sam's laugh when he's really, truly happy, when Dean has found some magic key to that smile. The protective ache he feels when Sam whimpers in his sleep. The look he gets when he's eaten until he's full. The look he used to get when he’d get a good grade. The look he’d get when he would meet Dean's eyes in unexpected moments, neither of them anticipating the other's gaze and he knows their hearts leapt just the same way, with the same feeling. That's what Sam is to him. It's the comfort of feeling absolutely everything for someone, feeling things that are indefinable and knowing that it's returned, every ounce of it. That you're getting back exactly what you're giving. And that's Sam, for him.

Sam is exactly half of him, and without him right here, next to him on this frozen night, Dean feels like he’s falling apart. Like he’s scrambling to hold his insides in, to keep himself together in Sam’s absence. 

Their first Christmas apart.

He lights the candle right next to Sammy's first candle, his chin trembling, a tear slipping hot down his cold cheek as he does.

"Both of 'em for you, Sammy," he whispers very softly, taking in the sight of the twin dancing flames. "Cause I love you most."

He drops the stick, his throat clamped down on what wants to be a sob so badly, his eyes blurring with tears as he turns away, shaking hands going into his pockets again. He can’t meet the woman’s eyes as she watches him pass, just keeps his head down and all but runs back outside, back into the bitter cold and the gathering snow.

His tears are sobering, but not enough to prevent him from reaching into his pocket for his phone, his clumsy fingers sliding over the buttons and pressing ‘call’ on Sam’s number. He puts the phone to his ear and listens to it ring while his heart hammers away fearfully in his chest.

It rings endlessly, or so it seems, a thrum of sound over and over while the rest of the town sleeps around him. He’s stopped right there outside the church, curled in around himself like everything in him is dependent on this phone call, on Sammy picking up.

He gets the voicemail. The automated voice invites him to leave a message, but he just snaps his phone closed, puts it back in his pocket, and closes his eyes.

It’s just as well. Sam’s probably at a party, probably curled up on a couch with beautiful people and laughing that big, amazing laugh of his, his cheeks flushed with the rum he’s been slowly drinking over the course of the evening. The volume on his phone is probably all the way down and it’s on a table somewhere, or in his pocket, unimportant.

He doesn’t need Dean calling him like this, drunk and maudlin and crying and missing him so much that literally doesn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other, doesn’t know how he’s going to get through this night in one piece without hearing Sam’s voice, even for a second.

Sam doesn’t need to know how truly pathetic his big brother is. Or else Dean will _really_ never see him again.

The walk back to the car doesn’t feel real, is done on autopilot, and he’s shivering dangerously by the time he gets his keys out of his pocket and starts her up. There’s a motel a couple blocks over that he drives at a cautious crawl to get to, checking in with the last of his cash and collapsing on the bed the second he gets inside, face buried in dirty blankets, breathing someone else’s scent in them, the ache in his chest so expansive now that he doesn’t know how it’ll ever close up again.

He passes out minutes later, doesn’t feel the phone vibrate in his jacket pocket.


End file.
